Sept. newspaper column ... Pope Francis

NORTHAMPTON —
The pope’s arrival in the United States
next Tuesday has revved up the Christian aspect of my 45-year interest in
spiritual life. It has also put me in mind of a time when my half-sister snookered
me into joining her church choir.

I said I didn’t know the hymns, didn’t read music very well
and my singing voice was far from sweet.

None of it worked. Reid had recently joined a small,
struggling Episcopalian church in one of the well-heeled suburbs outside Boston.
She wanted to support her church and I, as it turned out, was one of her means
of lending a hand.

“Don’t worry,” she soothed. “No one will hear you anyway.”

In the end, the irony of singing songs I didn’t know in a
faith I had my doubts about was enough to arouse a silly but sacred obligation
of all adults — that of being a fool from time to time.

“OK,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

When the appointed Sunday arrived, it turned out she had
shaded the truth a bit. The entire choir, dressed in obligatory little white
smocks, consisted of precisely three people.

But by the time I found that out, it was too late to give
her a piece of my mind. And if the audience did hear me, they were all polite
enough not to mention it.

And I had a wonderful time, not least because I got a
front-row seat as children from the congregation all brought their stuffed toys
up to the altar to be blessed. The kids loved it because they loved their toys
and I loved their loving their beloved friends.

But I digress. The pope is coming.

On the one hand, Francis is the CEO of the world’s largest
and richest corporation. With a worldwide constituency of something like 1.2
billion adherents, even non-Christians would be wise to take heed of this
cultural and political behemoth.

The Vatican
is a player with a capital “P.” Its holdings in American financial institutions
alone leave even Donald Trump in the shade.

On the other hand, despite the fact that there is no good
thing so good that it is incapable of cruelty and corruption, it is pleasing when
someone in the human spotlight can encourage what Abraham Lincoln referred to
as “the better angels of our nature.”

Put bluntly, I like to think I can do some good, even if I
can’t do it very well. Francis has managed to build a persona that seems to rely
less on a sense of whip-cracking obligation and more on an overarching decency
and kindness.

And he smiles: Even a non-Christian can smile.

The pope is coming.

If my father were alive, he would be sharpening his
intellectual carving knife. His father had been a Presbyterian minister who
insisted that my father memorize great hunks of the Bible, sometimes by candle
light.

As is often the case in such circumstances, my father fell
away from the faith with a vengeance. He became an English professor at Smith
College, teaching Shakespeare and
falling deeply in love with James Joyce, a writer who might arguably have been
called a pope of the English language.

Like other popes before him, Joyce soared to heights that
left “the least among us” gasping for air and simultaneously inflamed devotees
with a soaring fervor. My father chose the religion of the intellect. Amen!

But he was not about to let his biblical savvy go to waste.
Every now and then, he would go out for a beer at Rahar’s, a bar that no longer
exists here in Northampton, and
engage in theological fisticuffs with some local cleric who was likewise
sipping beer.

There they sat, mano a mano, religion vs. religion, each
trying his best to live up to the exceptionalism that is part and parcel of any
heartfelt faith, each trying to answer the nagging of any religious persuasion:
“If I’m so smart, how come I’m not happy?”

The arguments may have varied dramatically, but the beer was
equally good.

The pope is coming and I guess I am willing to be a little
bit foolish. The exceptionalism of humanists, atheists, Christians, Jews,
Muslims, Buddhists and whoever all else may strike me as suspect, but a song, a
smile, a beer and a beloved stuffed animal can call me out.

Am I right? Probably not, but I am more willing nowadays to
meet my sacred obligation and be a little bit foolish on behalf of a better
angel, however poorly discerned or defined.

The pope is coming and his arrival calls up a poem I wrote
long ago:

Sing loud in church

And be off-key!

Abandon sacred

Harmony.

Sing loud and in

That singing see

The untamed heart

That’s always free.

Adam Fisher lives in Northampton.
His column appears on the third Wednesday of the month. He can be reached at
genkakukigen@aol.com.

My name is Adam Fisher. I live in Northampton, Mass., U.S.A. I have a wife and three children. This is my blog and consists of almost-daily postings -- sometimes (older) about the Zen Buddhism I have admired and practiced for something short of 50 years; sometimes about other 'spiritual' matters; and (more recently) about whatever strikes my fancy. Except to the extent that it might help others to consider what sort of fool they might prefer not to be, this blog does not aim to help anyone. Writing is an old and diminishing habit. It's what I do. Once upon a time, I built a zendo/meditation hall in the backyard here and invited people to come. The zendo is still there and my Dharma name is still "Genkaku" ("original realization" or "original understanding") but these days the formality of meditation has drained. Black Moon Zendo is still a good zendo, but I am 77 in 2017 ... creaky and disinclined. I honor those who make courageous journeys, but am hoist by my own observation that "Just because you are indispensable to the universe does not mean the universe needs your help." Best wishes to all. I can be contacted at genkakukigen@aol.com